Everyone in my life knows I despise waking up to an alarm clock. I’m a night owl. I like getting up when my body decides to, not when a device tells me to. So when a group of friends started meeting every Tuesday at 6:30 am to exercise together, I said no for weeks. The husbands and single men play basketball. The wives and single women walk the neighborhood. Afterward, everyone goes to a local café for breakfast together.

It sounded nice. It also sounded like 5 am.

They’d been trying to talk me into it for weeks. I kept saying no, and they kept asking anyway.

Then a friend visiting from New York decided to join the group last Tuesday. She’s in town with her husband for a few weeks. If she could get up early on vacation, I figured I could make an exception too. For her. And because I knew I’d never hear the end of it.

So I set the alarm.

We all met at the park first, before the walk started. One of the women took a picture of the group there and sent it to me later that day, saying how glad she was that I’d come.

Once we started walking, I spent the first part near the back with a couple of the women. One of them I’d only seen once before and hadn’t gotten to know. Walking side by side made it easy to chat. Eventually I made my way to the front of the group. I was talking, joking, and upbeat in a way I hadn’t anticipated that early.

By the time we sat down for breakfast, I’d almost forgotten what time we’d started. Good conversation, good food, the kind of morning that felt easy once I let myself enjoy it.

I felt it later, though. I was fading by mid-afternoon, which is usually what happens when you’re up before the sun. But there was something else underneath the tiredness too. A sense of accomplishment I wasn’t expecting. The day felt long in a good way, like I’d lived through two of them instead of one.

When the group brought up next Tuesday, I didn’t make any promises. Realistically, I may show up once or twice a month, maybe less. Not every week. But I’m glad I made the exception this time.

The part that got to me wasn’t really the walk. It was what setting the alarm meant.

For most of my 20s, I woke up early because a job required it. I was grateful for those jobs. They paid well. At the time, I could picture myself eventually landing something closer to a dream job, if I worked in corporate long enough.

That mattered less to me over time, though. What I actually wanted wasn’t a dream title. It was control of my own schedule, the ability to build a life wherever I chose to live, and eventually, enough financial breathing room to make both of those things sustainable.

I still watch the same kind of content now – digital nomads, relocation channels, etc. But the reasons are different. It’s not about proving to myself that something is possible anymore. Now it’s more about getting the inside scoop, a feel for a place I haven’t been to yet, or a location that’s getting a lot of buzz. Sometimes it’s just catching updates on policy changes that affect people living or traveling abroad. What used to be research for a decision I hadn’t made yet is just information now, for a life I’m already living.

In the past, waking up early was just part of the deal. It came with the job.

Now it’s a choice. And that changes what setting an alarm actually means.

From the outside, you can’t tell the difference. A 5 am wake-up looks the same whether it’s for a job or a walk with friends. Your body doesn’t know the difference either.

But you know the difference.

When someone else sets your schedule, an early morning feels like something being taken from you. When you’re the one deciding, it feels like something you’re giving, on purpose, to someone or something that matters to you.

I think a lot of us picture freedom as skipping the hard stuff altogether. No more early mornings. No more inconvenience. No more setting an alarm for something that isn’t strictly necessary.

That’s not really what freedom gave me, though. It gave me the ability to decide, every time, whether something is worth it. Sometimes it is, like showing up for a friend who made the effort first. Sometimes it isn’t, and I get to say no without needing a bigger reason than that.

Before, a lot of my life ran on requirements I never got to question. Now, the same kind of effort gets weighed differently. I still get tired. I still have mornings I’d rather skip. The difference is whether I’m doing it because someone else decided for me, or because I decided it mattered.

None of that requires liking the hard part. I still don’t like waking up to an alarm clock. That hasn’t changed, and it probably won’t. What’s changed is that the alarm clock doesn’t decide anything about my life on its own anymore. I do.

A few questions I’ve started asking myself before setting an early alarm now:

• Am I setting this alarm because I want to, or because I feel like I owe it to someone?

• Would I still get up this early if no one was keeping track?

• What am I sacrificing by getting up this early, and is it worth it?

Sometimes the rules we hold onto tightest aren’t really about who we are. They’re just rules that haven’t been tested yet.

Think of the last thing you said no to. Ask yourself why, and don’t stop at the first answer.

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

P.S. A lot of the conversations happening in these essays are the same ones I explore with Black women who are rethinking work, success, and what comes next.

If you’re interested in working together, you can book a discovery call here.

It was the husband from a couple I’d met months earlier, during my relocation tour. His head was down, laptop open, editing some video content. He hadn’t noticed me yet, so I called his name.

He looked up, surprised, and just like that we picked up right where we’d left off. He mentioned his wife was shopping around the corner. A few minutes later, she walked up, just as surprised as he’d been.

We caught up right there in the middle of the mall. They told me what they’d been building since I last saw them: a faith-based community with fellowship online and in person, in both Panama and the U.S. I told them I’d officially made the move. Before we left, we exchanged numbers so we could stay in touch.

They’ve been a Godsend. Mentors. Friends. Family in faith. And all of that started with a conversation that happened before I ever packed a suitcase.

I didn’t move to Panama and then build community once I got here.

I built enough of one before I needed it.

Most people don’t do it that way. When you’re planning a big move, or even a big life change, the order usually looks like this: figure out the logistics first, then figure out the people once you land. Handle the visa, the housing, the budget. Deal with the social stuff later.

I understand the logic. I just didn’t follow it.

By the time I took my scouting trip, I’d already been to Panama several times. Enough to know I liked it. Enough to picture myself there in a general sense. But liking a place on vacation and actually building a life there are two different questions, and I didn’t want to confuse one for the other.

Before I made the move official, I took a two-week scouting trip. The goal was to simulate what regular life would actually feel like – grocery shopping, cooking, doing laundry, living like a resident.

That decision was just as impactful as I expected it to be. It taught me a lot about cost of living and logistics, but that’s not the main reason it mattered. It mattered because of who I met on that trip. Some of those connections clicked immediately.

Here’s what I think we get backwards about community: we treat it like something that requires a plan – events, meetups, forcing yourself to be outside. Going through the motions and hoping for connection.

But most of the real friendships I’ve made didn’t come from trying to network. They came from repetition in everyday places. Showing up to the same spots more than once. Saying yes to being included in something small. Letting people see the normal, unpolished version of you, instead of the one designed for a first impression.

That type of groundwork changes what showing up actually looks like. I didn’t move to a new country and have to build a social life from scratch, the way people often assume you do when you relocate somewhere unfamiliar. I already had people who knew my name, remembered our conversations, and were glad I’d followed through. The friendships I’ve made since then mostly grew out of that original network. One connection led to another, the way it usually does once you know a few people. I didn’t come to Panama feeling alone.

That support wasn’t just emotional. It was practical too, the kind that saved me from common mistakes.

There’s a norm here that would’ve been easy to get wrong: you don’t just walk up to someone and tell them what you want. Panamanians are warm and polite, and conversations start that way too. Before you ask for anything, you say hello or good morning/afternoon/evening. You ask how someone’s doing before getting to your request. In the U.S., skipping straight to the point is efficient. Expected. Here, it can come across as rude if you don’t lead with courtesy first.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to learn this the hard way. Most expats who’ve been here awhile already know it, and they made sure I did too.

It's not just individuals who look out for each other here. A group of us, mostly Black expats, started attending a local Spanish-speaking church together. What's grown out of that has been real: pastors, ministry leaders, and members all pulling in the same direction, committed to growing in faith and serving communities across Panama. New ideas and initiatives keep coming out of it, things we couldn't have built alone.

It’s also become an organic way for people to actually learn each other’s language. Spanish speakers get to practice their English. English speakers get to practice their Spanish. It happens from showing up to the same church, week after week, alongside people who are becoming family.

I think most of us wait to build community until we already need it. We move, and then we look for friends. We leave a job, and then we notice how much of our social life was actually built around coworkers. We become parents and realize how thin our village actually is. We go through a breakup, a diagnosis, or a long stretch buried in work, and only then notice how much we'd let slip.

Waiting until you need people makes it harder to build anything real. You’re starting from lack instead of interest, and people can usually feel the difference.

I think about that when I talk to women who are considering a career break, a move, or some other version of starting over. A lot of the planning goes toward the practical details. The finances, the timeline, the exit strategy. All of that matters. But rarely does anyone ask themselves whether they’ve tested the life they’re stepping into before they commit to it. I’ll ask a client what her days will actually look like once she makes the leap, and I can watch her realize she’s pictured the freedom but not the people. She knows what she’s leaving. She hasn’t thought much about who she’ll actually be spending her time with once she gets there.

You don’t have to be relocating to a different country for this to apply. Same goes for a new job, a new city, or a friend group you’ve outgrown. Maybe you’ve been circling a career change for a while, but you haven’t actually talked to anyone doing that work. Maybe you’re starting a business and don’t know a single person who’s actually built one. Or maybe you’re trying to feel like yourself again, and you’re hoping the right people show up along the way.

The alternative to hoping is simple: go find someone a few steps ahead of you.

Name the life you want. Who’s one conversation away from helping you get there?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

P.S. A lot of the conversations happening in these essays are the same ones I explore with Black women who are rethinking work, success, and what comes next.

If you’re interested in working together, you can book a discovery call here.

Usually because it doesn’t seem important enough. It doesn’t fit into a plan. It doesn’t have an obvious payoff. So you keep circling back to it, and the rest of life keeps getting priority.

It looks like curiosity.

Or a hobby.

Or an idea you revisit every few years and forget about again.

We’re efficient at making room for obligations. The job, the bills, the things other people are counting on. Those get our time without question. But the interests that don’t come with a deadline or a title attached – those get filed under “later.” Nice to have. Not urgent.

So the interest stays where it’s been. And life keeps moving.

For me, it was building something of my own. Not working for anyone else. Time freedom, location freedom, eventually financial freedom too. I thought about it for years before it became anything close to a plan. I’m living that now, full time, as a coach. But it didn’t start as a plan. It started as something I kept thinking about on the side, long before I had any business calling it a goal.

What Keeps Showing Up

Most of us have at least one of these.

A class you’ve considered taking more than once. A place you’ve researched at different points in your life, for no particular reason. A podcast episode you saved because something about it caught your attention. A section of a bookstore you always drift toward, even when you go in looking for something else.

If you looked at your YouTube history – really looked – or went back through the books you’ve bought, borrowed, or bookmarked more than once, you’d probably find a pattern. A topic that keeps reappearing. Something you keep going back to without deciding to.

It’s worth asking why.

Why does this keep showing up? Out of everything competing for your attention, why does this particular thing keep finding its way back?

Most people don’t ask. They notice the interest, give it a little time, then put it down to handle whatever’s next. Something is always next.

It’s not obsession. It’s not even a strong pull most of the time. It’s something that’s been there in the background for years, showing up again and again.

Not because we were chasing it.

It just kept showing up.

Sometimes It’s A Way Of Living

For me, it was housing.

A few years ago, I spent a lot of time researching different housing options. Condos. Tiny homes. I was looking for ways to spend less and still live well.

It started as a financial question, a way to free up more of my budget. But the research kept pulling me somewhere I didn’t expect it to go.

The tiny homes were what I kept coming back to. Not the flimsy ones on wheels. I wanted something built on a real foundation, something sturdy. I saved YouTube videos into their own category. I collected builders I liked and models I liked, the way some people collect anything else. I looked into what it would actually take to buy a lot and put a home on it. I talked to a realtor about it. There are still inspo pictures sitting in my phone right now, years later, that I haven’t deleted.

Every so often I’d send a video to a friend just to show them what builders were doing with the space. The configurations are endless. People were fitting a full kitchen, a loft, a washer and dryer, and a covered patio into a few hundred square feet, and making it look like more than enough. I needed someone else to see it too.

At the time, I thought I was just interested in the homes.

Looking back, it was bigger than that. I wasn’t drawn to the square footage. I was drawn to the creativity behind it. The resourcefulness. The idea that homeownership didn’t have to look the way everyone assumed it did, and that there were other ways to design a life that still felt satisfying.

A lot of us inherit the same picture of adulthood without ever talking about it. A certain kind of home. A certain neighborhood. A certain size that signals you’ve arrived somewhere. We absorb that picture early, then spend years building toward it before we ever stop to ask if it’s what we actually want.

The tiny home research was, I think, the start of me asking that question. Not directly. Not as a plan. Just an ongoing curiosity about whether there were other options – other ways to live that didn’t follow the same path everyone else seemed to be on.

Living abroad was another version of the same thing. I spent years reading about it before I ever seriously considered doing it myself. Years before it felt like something I could actually do.

That’s how it tends to work. The interest shows up long before the decision does. And if you’re not paying attention, it’s easy to write it off as nothing.

The Businesses Ended. The Curiosity Didn’t.

Entrepreneurship was one of those things for me.

Not the version that gets talked about online. Not the overnight launches or the people who seem to have it figured out by 30. It was more like a question that wouldn’t leave me alone: what would it look like to build something of my own?

I didn’t have a business background. No MBA, no mentor walking me through it, no clear starting point. I was figuring it out as I went.

Over time, I built several e-commerce stores. I learned by doing – solving problems as they came up, watching tutorials when I got stuck, taking the next step even when I wasn’t sure it was the right one. The businesses generated sales. They just didn’t generate enough to be sustainable long-term.

Eventually, I shut them down.

That part wasn’t easy. There’s something hard about putting real effort into a thing and then walking away from it. You second-guess the decision. You wonder if you quit too soon, or made the wrong call somewhere earlier on. You wonder what it says about you.

But here’s what I noticed. Shutting the businesses down didn’t touch the interest. The businesses ended. The curiosity didn’t.

I kept reading. Kept paying attention to how people built things. Kept thinking about what it would take to create something that was actually mine. The interest didn’t disappear just because one version of it hadn’t worked out.

If anything, it got clearer. I learned what I didn’t want. I understood, more precisely, what I’d actually been trying to build underneath all the decisions about products and platforms and marketing. The failed attempt wasn’t a detour. It was part of how I got there.

That’s usually how you know something is real. It survives the version of it that didn’t work.

There Was Always A Reason

Part of the problem is that we expect the things that matter to arrive looking important.

Something we can explain easily. Something with a clear trajectory. Something we can build a plan around and point to when someone asks what we’re working toward.

A lot of the time, the things that end up shaping us don’t arrive that way.

They arrive looking like a passing interest. A rabbit hole. A tab you left open for three weeks because you weren’t ready to close it. And because they don’t look like the things we’re supposed to take seriously, we don’t. We give them a little attention and move on.

My version of that was herbalism.

I’ve been a micro-gardener for years, growing ornamental plants in small spaces, and herbalism was a natural next step. I’d find one-off classes online and be amazed at the range of things you could learn to make. Soaps. Tinctures. I always thought they’d be fun to try with friends, but I never actually signed up. They’d fall off my radar until the next time I sat down to revisit my goals for the year.

Recently I started wanting something more structured. A real curriculum, not just a weekend workshop. But every time I looked into it, I’d hesitate. So much of herbalism education online is wrapped in language I don’t connect with. Mysticism. Energy work. A lot of “woo” that made me question whether the information underneath it was even legitimate, or whether I’d just be paying for a vibe.

Is this even legit?

Why would I take this seriously when I don’t know where it leads?

So I treated it like a passing interest instead of information I was actually allowed to want. Filed it under “someday” and kept gardening on the side, the same way I had been for years.

A couple of weeks ago, I found a program that didn’t do any of that. It’s rooted in biblical principles instead, which is a foundation I actually trust. Straightforward. Substance over aesthetic.

“Someday” does a lot of work in most people’s lives. It’s where we put what we actually want but haven’t given ourselves permission to pursue. It sounds responsible. It rarely turns into action.

That’s what I didn’t notice for years. I never applied those same standards to the things I had to do.

Nobody asked me to prove a job was worth taking seriously before I started it. Nobody asked me to justify paying my bills, or to demonstrate that a work project would matter five years from now before I put effort into it. Obligation didn’t have to clear a bar. It just got my time.

But the things I was genuinely drawn to – the ones that kept showing up without being asked – those had to prove themselves first. A plan. A return on investment. A reasonable explanation I could give someone else.

It’s a strange double standard. We don’t question what we’re told to do. We only question what we want.

A lot of us were raised to be suspicious of desire that doesn’t come with a clear purpose. Especially when it’s just interesting to us, with no other justification. You earn the right to want something, the thinking goes, by taking care of everything else first.

Which means the things you’re genuinely drawn to end up at the bottom of the list.

Some of the things that ended up shaping my life most significantly showed up long before I understood what they were pointing to. A place. A topic. An idea that wouldn’t let go.

The herbalism interest sat there for a year and a half before I gave it real attention. Not because the interest wasn’t real. The truth was that I just didn’t make it a priority to learn.

Then I found a program I trusted, and signed up without thinking twice.

Take It Seriously For A Season

I’m not suggesting that every passing thing that catches your eye is a calling.

But there’s a difference between something that shows up once and something that keeps coming back.

The ones that keep coming back – the topics that resurface at different points in your life, the skills you’ve started learning more than once, the questions you can’t fully shake – are worth taking more seriously than we usually do.

Not with a five-year plan attached.

Just with a little more honesty about the fact that they’ve been there. That you didn’t invent the interest last week. That it’s been showing up for years.

What would it look like to take it seriously for a season? Not quit your job or rebuild your life around it, but actually give it real time and attention instead of whatever’s left over. Treat it the way you’d treat something that mattered, and see what you learn.

It doesn’t care what phase of life you’re in, or whether you have a good explanation ready. It just keeps showing up.

The question is whether you’re paying attention.

What topic, place, or skill has followed you around for years?
What’s the real reason you haven’t made room for it?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

P.S. A lot of the conversations happening in these essays are the same ones I explore with Black women who are rethinking work, success, and what comes next.

If you’re interested in working together, you can book a discovery call here.

It was what I wanted.

A few years earlier, I would have been focused on career growth, promotions, and earning more.

By then, my attention was starting to move in a different direction.

More time with family.

More freedom.

More travel.

More room for interests that had nothing to do with work.

Work still mattered to me. I was a high performer and committed to the organization I worked for. I wasn’t looking for an exit route or dreaming about quitting my job.

If anything, I was hoping to find a way to make the job fit the life I was beginning to want.

At the time, I didn’t have language for any of this.

I just knew something was changing.

Around that time, I started watching more travel videos.

At first, it was probably a form of escapism.

Life felt busy. Work was demanding. My commute into New York City involved a shuttle and two trains each way. I spent three hours traveling every day.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted.

There were Sundays when I streamed church from home because I couldn’t muster up the energy to attend in person.

I knew I wanted something to change. I just wasn’t sure what.

The videos gave me a glimpse of something different.

Not necessarily a place.

A different way of living.

Then my curiosity took over.

Looking back, that probably shouldn’t have surprised me. My family still jokes that my favorite question as a child was “why?”

Once I started learning about different ways people were living and working, I was hooked.

One video led to another.

One search led to another.

As I came across new terms and ideas, I’d look those up too.

I attended virtual conferences during long weekends and filled Google Docs and phone notes with pages of observations. I saved presentation slides. I joined breakout rooms. I stayed connected with people long after the events ended.

The more I learned, the more questions I had.

Not because I was trying to make a quick decision.

Because I was trying to understand what was possible.

One thing that surprised me was how many other people were wrestling with the same ideas.

Women in their 20s.

Women in their 50s.

Women in their 70s.

Different backgrounds. Different careers. Different life experiences.

Many of us were asking similar questions about how we wanted to spend our time and what we wanted life to look like moving forward.

I also discovered entire industries built around helping people make these transitions.

There were relocation specialists, career break communities, accountability groups, conferences, coaches, and people who had already done what many of us were only beginning to consider.

What had once felt unusual started feeling much more realistic.

Somewhere along the way, I started asking different questions.

I stopped spending so much time thinking about the next promotion or the next step on the corporate ladder.

I started asking:

What kind of life do I want?

How do I want to spend my time?

What am I excited to build?

What do I want more of in this season of life?

Looking back, I wasn’t just trying to figure out what to do next professionally.

I was trying to figure out how I wanted to live.

Once the questions changed, the decisions started changing too.

Because when you become clearer about the life you want, you start evaluating opportunities differently.

You’re no longer starting with what you’re supposed to want.

You’re starting with what you want.

There’s more than one way to build a meaningful life.

Sometimes the possibilities are there long before we can see them.

The challenge is giving ourselves permission to explore them.

As you think about the future, what do you want more of?

Maybe it’s time freedom. Location freedom. Rest. Creativity. Community.

What might change if you started making decisions with that in mind?

Let me know in the comments.

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

P.S. A lot of the conversations happening in these essays are the same ones I explore with Black women who are rethinking work, success, and what comes next.

If you’re interested in working together, you can book a discovery call here.

We pick it up somewhere along the way. From family, culture, school, work. It sounds right, so we don’t question it. We treat it like the default.

It’s usually the kind of life people are told to aspire to.

Security. A certain level of income. A lifestyle that reflects that progress. The kinds of things people associate with doing well.

You don’t always sit down and decide that this is what you want. It’s just what makes sense based on what you’ve seen and what you’ve been told.

And to be clear, there’s nothing wrong with any of it.

But that doesn’t mean it fits everyone.

For a long time, that was my definition too.

Corporate stability. Senior titles. The kind of life that looks impressive from the outside.

I wasn’t questioning any of it. I was moving in that direction because it’s what you’re supposed to do if you want to build a good life.

And for a while, it worked well enough.

At some point, I started noticing that the things I was working toward weren’t motivating me the same way anymore.

The promotions, the career path, the lifestyle that came with it. It all looked right, but it didn’t change how I was actually living.

It didn’t change how much control I had over my time or how my days were structured.

I wasn’t lacking anything on paper. But when I looked at the reality of my day-to-day life, it didn’t feel like something I wanted to keep building on.

I didn’t fully see that until I started living abroad.

I was spending time with people who were building their lives differently – creating their own work and structuring their time in ways that weren’t centered around aggressive corporate goals.

It gave me a different reference point.

I could see how they were actually living. How they spent their time. What they prioritized.

The American Dream was no longer the standard.

The farther away I got from that version of success, the more obvious some things became.

A lot of what we’re taught to aim for is so normalized that we don’t question it.

You start to absorb those ideas when you’re surrounded by them every day.

Looking back, much of what I invested energy into felt surface-level.

Things that look like success, but don’t make you any happier.

Status. Image. Achievement measured by other people’s standards.

None of it was grounded in how I actually wanted to live.

Once I saw that clearly, it stopped feeling important.

What changed wasn’t just what I stopped prioritizing. It was what started to matter more.

I started valuing things like time, flexibility, peace, and having the space to explore what I was actually curious about.

Having the time to follow an interest without needing it to be immediately useful. Learning things because they were interesting or relevant to me, not because they fit into a specific role or trajectory.

During my career break, I explored things I had been curious about for a long time. Some of it stayed personal. Some of it ended up connecting to work I would do later.

But the bigger shift was that I had the space to do it at all.

It also showed up in smaller, more practical ways.

I started making decisions differently.

I paid more attention to whether something would give me more space or take it away. More flexibility or less. More peace or more pressure.

That became a filter.

There were opportunities I would have said yes to before that didn’t make sense anymore.

Not because they were bad choices, but because they didn’t improve my quality of life.

Peace became a bigger marker for me.

How much stress I was carrying. How much pressure I felt around money. How manageable my days were.

Having more margin in my finances changed that.

I’m not maximizing my income just to live a simple lifestyle and save modestly.

I don’t feel that strain anymore.

Living in a lower cost of living environment gives me more room to thrive. I’m not constantly chasing higher income just to maintain my lifestyle or keep up with rising costs.

This is how a lot of us wish adulthood felt, but most people never pause long enough to revisit their definition of a good life.

They just keep building on top of it.

More responsibility. More expectations to maintain something they didn’t fully choose in the first place.

And when something feels off, the assumption is usually that they need to try harder.

Sometimes the issue isn’t your effort. It’s what you’re aiming for.

You can be doing everything right and still feel disconnected from the life you’re pursuing.

Not because you’re doing anything wrong, but because the definition you’re using doesn’t fit anymore.

And if that’s the case, pushing harder usually doesn’t fix it.

Looking at it differently does.

A lot of us grew up believing that freedom comes after years of sacrifice.

Work hard now. Rest later. Enjoy your life when you retire.

But I think more people are starting to question whether the life they’re working hard for is one they even want in the first place.

Give this some real thought. What parts of your life feel aligned – and what parts were you taught to want?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

P.S. A lot of the conversations happening in these essays are the same ones I explore with Black women around the world – especially when it comes to career breaks, redefining success, burnout, and building a life that feels more authentic.

If you’re interested in working together, you can book a discovery call here.

Not because they’re unrealistic, but because we never actually take the time to look at them closely.

They sit in the background. Ideas we’ve had for a while. Things we like. Things that come up in conversation every now and then, but never get explored.

I’ve been traveling internationally since I was a kid.

One of my first travel memories was going to Mexico as a teenager. We spent time in places like Mérida and Cancún, and visited Chichén Itzá. I remember how hot it was, and how full the days were. We were out all day, immersed in a culture that felt completely different from my own.

So the idea of being in other countries was never unfamiliar to me. But for a long time, that’s all it was. Something I enjoyed, not something I had seriously thought about building my life around.

Eventually, I started thinking about what it would actually take to make that kind of life possible.

I didn’t personally know anyone who was doing it, so I started looking.

I had already been watching travel videos on YouTube, but this time it was more intentional. I started searching for things like digital nomads, Black expats, and what it actually looked like to live in different countries.

I wasn’t just watching casually anymore. I was paying attention to how people were living – what their days looked like, what they liked and didn’t, what it cost to be there.

I was comparing places more seriously, paying closer attention to the differences.

There were a few cities in Latin America I was considering, and I had to narrow them down in a way that made sense for me – cost of living, day-to-day lifestyle, how easy it would be to get around, and how it felt to imagine myself there long-term.

It wasn’t just about where I liked the idea of living. It was about where I could realistically see myself building a life.

When you don’t see something around you, you either assume it’s rare or you go looking for it.

I was seeing this way of living more often – hearing more stories and getting a better sense of what it could look like in real life.

But it didn’t feel like something I could actually do.

It was interesting. It made sense on paper. But it felt a little out of reach.

That’s where a lot of us stay. You can understand something, even see other people doing it, and it doesn’t quite feel like an option for you.

The part that changed everything wasn’t what I saw. It was what I calculated.

Up until then, living abroad still felt like something I was learning about – something I was considering, something that made sense for other people.

But I hadn’t really looked at what it would mean for me, and that’s the part a lot of us skip. So I started with my own numbers.

I went through my monthly expenses and looked at what I was actually spending – what it took to maintain my life as it was.

Then I started comparing.

I used cost of living calculators and looked at different countries and cities, breaking things down in a way I hadn’t done before.

At one point, I started focusing on cities in central Mexico.

That felt like a natural place to look. I was already familiar with the culture, given how visible it is in the U.S. The weather felt ideal for me – not too hot or too cold. It’s relatively close to the East Coast, where my family is, with direct flights in some cases. It didn’t feel that far off from my life.

And once I started running the numbers, everything got clearer pretty quickly.

I could see what it would cost to live there. I could see how that compared to what I was already spending. What stood out the most was that I could afford it.

It wasn’t a stretch. In some cases, I’d actually be spending less – I could earn less, keep the same lifestyle, and still have more room than I did before.

Living abroad stopped feeling like something I was just curious about and started to feel more concrete. It wasn’t just an idea anymore. It felt like something I could actually move toward.

I could see how this kind of life fit into what I wanted – more flexibility, more freedom with my time, and the ability to choose where I lived.

And after that, it became something I knew I had to seriously consider.

If you’ve been wanting something more, it might be worth giving it a closer look too. Run the numbers. See what it looks like in practice.

Treat your “maybe one day” category like today’s the day.

What have you been on the fence about?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

Nothing major about the conversations themselves. Just normal check-ins. What’s been going on, how work has been, what life looks like lately.

But after a while, I realized how familiar it all sounded.

The same kinds of updates. The same frustrations. The same tone.

A lot of it centered around work. Jobs people didn’t really like or weren’t excited about, but were committed to because they made sense. Conversations about how demanding things have been, how hard it is to take time off, how limited people feel in what they can do next.

Then the conversations shifted to everything else. The cost of living. How expensive things have gotten. What feels harder than it used to. What feels uncertain. What people are trying to figure out.

None of it is surprising. Most of it is valid.

But what stood out to me wasn’t just what people were saying.

It was how often I’ve heard these same conversations.

Some of them happen every time we talk.

Not slightly different versions. The same ones.

Eventually, you start to notice how predictable they are. They don’t really move forward. They just circle.

What stood out even more was what wasn’t coming up.

I rarely hear people talk about something they’re genuinely excited about.

I don’t mean casual things like “I’m looking forward to the weekend” or “I have a trip coming up.”

I mean real excitement.

The kind where someone lights up when they start talking. They get a little more animated. They talk faster. They don’t have to search for what to say because it’s already there.

It doesn’t happen often.

Most conversations stay in the same lane. What’s stressful. What’s frustrating. What needs to be figured out. What’s next on the list.

There’s not much space for anything else.

Not much curiosity. Not much sense of direction that feels personal. Not many ideas that people seem pulled toward.

The difference becomes a lot more noticeable when I think about conversations I’ve had outside of the U.S.

The tone is different.

People talk about their lives in a way that feels more open. More present. More engaged.

There’s more curiosity in the conversation. More interest in what’s happening around them. More energy around things they’re actually looking forward to.

You hear things like, “What’s going on this week?” Not in a routine way, but because there are things happening that people want to be part of.

People make plans. They follow through. They spend time together without rushing.

You notice it in regular interactions.

There’s more patience.

You’re not treated like you’re in the way for asking a question or needing a moment to figure something out. People take their time with you. Conversations aren’t cut short just because they can be.

No one is rushing you through the interaction so they can get to the next thing.

You notice it in how people spend their time, too.

They’re not spending all their time trying to recover from work.

There’s space for rest that actually feels like rest. Time with people that isn’t squeezed in between everything else.

There was something else I noticed.

You can hear it in how people talk.

There isn’t much curiosity about what their lives could look like beyond what they’re used to. Not much conversation about what they actually want. Not many ideas that feel personal or intentional.

Most of it stays focused on what’s already in front of them.

What they have to do. What they need to figure out. What they’re trying to manage.

And over time, that becomes the default.

You adjust to it. You get used to it. You build your life around it.

Some people can’t imagine anything beyond that.

Not because they lack the ability or the resources.

But because their world has slowly narrowed without them really noticing.

The options feel limited. It just becomes how things are.

So the focus stays where it is.

On what’s required. On what’s expected. On what makes sense.

And anything outside of that gets pushed to the side.

When everything stays in that lane, life starts to revolve around a few core things.

Work.

Keeping things running.

And trying to recover in between.

Most days are structured around what needs to get done. Work takes up the bulk of it, and whatever time is left goes toward errands, responsibilities, or catching up on things that didn’t get handled during the week.

There’s not much room left after that.

And when there is, it’s usually spent resting or trying to recharge enough to do it again.

It becomes a cycle.

Work. Handle what you need to. Rest. Repeat.

Not because people don’t want something different.

But because this is what their lives have been built around.

And after a while, it doesn’t really get questioned.

It just feels normal.

The difference becomes really clear when you come across someone who’s actually excited about their life.

It’s not subtle.

They’re usually working toward something because they want to.

It’s not always big, but it’s obvious.

Sometimes it’s as simple as learning something new, getting more involved in their community, or finding ways to spend their time that actually feel meaningful.

They show up differently.

They’re engaged.

They’re not just managing their lives. They’re participating in them.

And the people I’ve found myself most drawn to lately are usually in that place.

They’re doing things that matter to them. They’re building, contributing, or creating space for things that feel real.

Not just focused on themselves, but connected to something beyond that.

You can hear it in the way they talk.

There’s more substance. More curiosity. More intention behind what they’re doing and why.

It doesn’t feel like they’re just filling time.

It feels like they’re actually living.

That made me start paying attention to what I hear most often. And what’s missing.

Tell me, when was the last time you genuinely felt excited about your life?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

I was leaning all the way back in a recliner, laughing with the sales agent because she knew I wasn’t leaving without that chair.

A friend saw it and commented, “The most outside (but inside) person I know.”

I laughed because he’s right.

I like being out. I like being around people. I’ll meet up with friends, go to dinner, check out art galleries, find studios hosting ceramics classes, or end up in a cute plant shop looking at things I probably don’t need.

But I also really like being home.

Not in a “nothing else is going on” kind of way. I actually prefer it a lot of the time.

When I’m home, I’m not just sitting around trying to pass the time.

I’m usually writing or learning something new. Sometimes it’s something I plan to use right away, like creating digital products. Other times I’m brainstorming ideas and figuring out how I want to bring them to life, like some of the horticulture projects I’ve been getting into.

Or I’m repotting something that’s outgrown its space, pruning leaves, setting up new cuttings to propagate, or watching the hummingbirds dart in and out of my balcony.

Sidebar: I just found out there’s something called PlantCon?! I immediately went down a rabbit hole trying to figure out when and where it is because I need to go. It sounds like both a fantasy land and a danger zone for plant people like me, and I’m here for all of it.

I didn’t always feel this way, though.

Staying in used to be the default, not a choice. It was the plan if there were no other options.

Being out felt like where life was. I didn’t want to miss anything, even if I didn’t have the energy for it. So I went.

A lot of that started to change when I began spending more time in Central America.

The pace is more relaxed. People move differently. There isn’t a constant push to be doing things all the time.

There’s this phrase people joke about called “mañana time.” It doesn’t literally mean tomorrow. It just means…not today. There’s no rush. If something gets done later, it gets done later.

And the funny part is, most people are completely fine with that. We laugh about it. Because the assumption is, it’ll get done. No one’s stressing about it.

You notice it in everyday moments. Like when you go out to eat. No one brings you the bill unless you ask for it. They’re not trying to rush you out. It’s considered polite to let you sit and enjoy your time.

It’s a very different experience from the U.S., where everything feels a lot more immediate. Like it needs to be done right now.

Being in environments like this has an impact on what my days look like and what I care about.

I have little to no interest in buying things impulsively or having them just because I can. It’s more about experiences now. Traveling, being in different places, understanding different ways of living, spending time with people I actually enjoy being around, and having things to do at home that don’t feel like filler.

Writing has been a big one for me.

I used to love it when I was a kid. I had journals with little locks and keys, and I’d sit and write for no reason other than I wanted to. Mostly about what was going on in my life at the time.

I got away from it in high school. I was in a college prep program that involved extensive reading and writing, and it stopped feeling like a creative outlet. It became work.

It wasn’t until my career break that I started blogging consistently. I didn’t know much about it at the time, so I started learning (surprise). I took a few trainings, started experimenting, and figured out what worked for me. That eventually turned into my Substack.

And now I actually enjoy writing again. I look forward to it. I like sharing what I’m thinking about, reading other people’s work, and getting into conversations that come from it.

I didn’t expect that to come back, but it all feels natural.

And I think that’s why what my friend said actually stuck with me.

I still like being out. I still like being around people. That part of me hasn’t changed. But I also really like being home now.

Not because I have to be. Not because I’m exhausted. I just enjoy it.

And for a long time, I didn’t realize those two things could be true at the same time. But they can.

If you’re being honest, where would you rather be most nights?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

We walked there together. It was warm and humid, with a slight breeze. The streets were busy as usual. There were plenty of people out and a steady flow of cars, with traffic starting to build but still moving.

The restaurant had a front patio with plants everywhere. Big, leafy, a little overgrown. It almost looked like a small jungle from the outside.

We walked in and sat toward the back, away from the front entrance and foot traffic. A table for two. I took the booth side.

Right next to us, up on top of a bookshelf, was a pink Syngonium.

It caught my attention right away. The leaves were curled and a little crispy, and it was very leggy. It was sitting directly under a bulb, probably the only light it had back there.

We started talking about it before we even opened the menu.

The waitress came by once and we weren’t ready, then again, and we still hadn’t decided what to order. We were too busy talking. At one point we had to pause the conversation just to look at the menu and pick something.

It was Afro-Caribbean food, which I love. We ended up staying longer than we planned, just talking and laughing.

As we were leaving, she told me my knowledge of plants isn’t normal. And that I light up when I talk about them.

On the walk back, we passed a large Philodendron Red Emerald sitting inside a storefront. It was big and full – not something you usually see indoors like that.

As we were walking by, I noticed it and said, “Oooooo!”

She jumped and screamed, thinking I saw a bug on her.

I told her no, I was looking at the plant on the other side of her. I said I could probably make ten plants out of it.

That’s when she laughed and told me I need to be teaching classes. I’ve always chalked it up to trial and error with my plants, but I’ve been doing this for years. She might be onto something.

It was the middle of the day. A weekday. And there was no rush.

That wouldn’t have been possible before.

My days used to start before I even got out of bed.

I’d wake up, grab my phone, and go straight into emails and Slack messages. I was responding to things before I had even stood up, before I drank water, before I had fully woken up.

The day had already started.

Lunch wasn’t really a break either. It was a set window, thirty minutes, maybe an hour, something I had to fit between everything else. I was always aware of the time.

Afternoons didn’t stay open. If there was a gap, I felt like I needed to use it. Catch up on something, schedule something, get ahead on something.

Weekends worked the same way, just packed differently. Errands, family, anything that didn’t fit during the week got pushed there. It felt like the only time to handle everything, so everything had to fit.

Even time off didn’t fully feel like time off. I’ve worked during vacations before. Partly to save time off, partly to avoid how it might look to be gone too long.

There wasn’t really a part of the day that felt open or unclaimed.

Everything already had a place before I got to it.

Now my days don’t start that way.

I wake up when I wake up. No alarm.

I don’t reach for my phone first thing because there’s nothing urgent waiting for me anymore.

I get up and take my time. I’ll pray, open the window coverings, and check on my plants. I reset the humidifier for the ones that need it and move around the apartment a bit before doing anything else.

Then I make breakfast and coffee and sit down with it.

Mornings feel slower and calmer. I’m not rushing into anything.

I usually sit in my chair with my laptop nearby, and the ottoman next to me holds a tray with my phone, remotes, and a few small things I use throughout the day. My water thermos is always within reach. I used to go for drinks that were full of sugar, but now it’s mostly ice cold water throughout the day. Maybe coffee or tea in the morning. Sometimes natural coconut or soursop juice with dinner if I’m feeling grown.

Afternoons feel different too.

I still like some structure, so I’ll set aside parts of the day for things like writing, coaching, errands, or meeting friends. But I place those things into my day instead of trying to fit my day around them.

If something takes longer, it takes longer. If there’s a gap, I don’t rush to fill it.

There’s more room to move things around without feeling like I’m falling behind.

I can sit and watch something all the way through without picking up my phone or trying to do something else at the same time. That used to feel like wasted time, especially when I’d sit down to watch a full movie. Now it just feels normal.

Evenings have that same kind of pace.

I usually have a late breakfast and an early dinner. I don’t cook every day anymore because I have a chef who prepares my meals for the week and delivers everything at the start of it. I portion out what I need, freeze the rest, and take it out when I’m ready for it.

After I eat, I might watch something, catch up on the news, or just sit for a while. I’m not trying to turn that time into anything.

The hummingbirds come by throughout the day, and they’re special to me. Around sunset, I go and change the nectar. They usually stop feeding around that time, and I like to keep it fresh so it doesn’t spoil.

The differences show up most in moments like that lunch.

Being able to walk somewhere in the middle of the day, sit down, and take your time. Having a conversation that goes longer than expected and not needing to check the time or wrap up abruptly.

Not because it’s the weekend. Not because I planned for it or took time off.

There’s more space in my days now, and my time isn’t already spoken for when I start. It changes how the whole day feels.

What starts your day – and are you ok with it?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

When I took some time away from work, I started to notice it more.

A lot of it looked like responding while I was already doing something else. Answering messages mid-task, picking up calls if I was able to, going back and forth between emails, Slack, and texts. Even when I didn’t feel like responding, I still would.

That was just the default.

A message comes in, you answer.
Then another one comes in.
Then your phone rings.

A lot of that came from work.

Being available, responding quickly, staying on top of everything – that’s how you’re expected to show up, especially in corporate environments. It’s how you’re seen as dependable. Valuable.

And after a while, it stops feeling like a work habit. It just becomes how you operate.

If you’re used to being the one people go to, this probably feels normal.

I also used to explain myself a lot. If I didn’t respond right away, I’d follow up with a reason – what I was doing, why I couldn’t answer. Not because anyone asked for it, but because I wanted to get ahead of it.

Looking back, I was trying to manage how the other person might feel before they even said anything.

That can feel like being considerate.

After a while, it starts to wear on you.

You’re managing everyone else on top of yourself.

At some point, I started to see what I was doing.

I wasn’t just busy.
I was constantly available.

Even when I didn’t have the time. Even when I didn’t have the energy.

That’s where things started to change.

One of the first things I adjusted was how quickly I respond. I don’t treat every message like it needs an immediate answer anymore. If I’m in the middle of something, I finish what I’m doing first and answer later. Sometimes later that day, sometimes the next day.

It depends.

There are also stretches now where I don’t even know where my phone is. Before, that wouldn’t have happened. I always had it nearby, within reach, ready to respond.

Now it’s not always in front of me.

That made a difference right away.

I started to notice how often I was interrupting myself.

I’m not jumping between things all day anymore.

I started looking at things differently before I commit to them. I look at what something is going to require from me before I say yes.

Not just the time, but the attention and energy.

If I know something is going to pull me in a direction I don’t want to go, I don’t agree to it. Before, I would’ve said yes and figured it out later.

Now I decide first.

It comes up in everyday situations. Plans, conversations, even quick check-ins. I’m not automatically saying yes anymore. I’m actually deciding.

I’ve gotten more comfortable declining things without turning it into a whole explanation. If I’m not up for something, I’ll say that. Or I’ll suggest another day that works better for me.

It’s simple.

And I don’t explain my decisions the same way anymore. If I don’t want to do something, I’ll just say that.

Conversations have changed too.

I used to stay in conversations longer than I actually had the energy for. I didn’t notice it then.

I would stay on the phone, stay in the conversation, keep it going. Even when I was mentally done. Even when I didn’t really have anything else to say.

Now I notice it earlier.

And I don’t stay on the phone longer than I want to.

I’m also more selective about what I engage in. I don’t feel the need to agree with everything someone says just to keep the conversation going. And I don’t feel the need to validate something that doesn’t sit right with me.

My tolerance is lower for certain conversations. The negativity, going in circles, or talking about things that don’t really matter –

I’m opting out of those conversations.

Not because I don’t care about people.

But because I care about how I spend my time and energy.

That’s probably the biggest change.

It’s not just about responding slower or saying no more often. It’s about being more aware of what something is going to require from me before I step into it.

Even small things have changed because of that.

Group chats, for example. I’m in a lot of them, and it adds up quickly. I used to try to keep up with everything in real time. Now I don’t. Some of them are muted. I check them when I feel like it.

It keeps my nerves from getting fried.

It’s not constant anymore.

It’s not about ignoring people. It’s just recognizing my capacity and moving accordingly.

That took some getting used to.

And it’s still something I pay attention to.

What helped me

• I stopped responding right away. Not everything needs an immediate answer.

• I paused before saying yes. Just long enough to decide if I actually mean it.

• I kept my answers simple. No long explanations.

• I let people have their reactions. I don’t manage that upfront.

What are you saying yes to when you should be saying no?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

I cared about how things looked, and I wanted my home to feel put together. But a lot of what I lived with was just what I had at the time.

Some of it was furniture passed down from other people. Many of those pieces were light, pastel, or neutral. Soft pinks, pale blues, off-whites. The kind of furniture that blends in easily no matter where you put it. It served its purpose, and I was grateful to have it, but it wasn’t something I would have chosen for myself.

As I started earning more, I replaced things gradually. It happened in phases over time, as I found pieces I liked and could afford. I bought what was comfortable and looked nice. I gravitated toward earth tones at first because they were easy to find. Warm browns, muted greens, soft tan fabrics. Later, I found myself drawn to lighter, cooler tones. Creams, soft greys, lighter wood finishes that made the space feel more open.

Everything worked. It looked good.

But it didn’t feel like me.

It became clearer the more time I spent at home. I was moving through the same areas every day, sitting in the same spots, and it was easier to notice what I actually used the most and what I wasn’t using at all.

I started letting some of it go.

Up until then, I had been choosing things based on how they looked or how practical they were. That approach made sense at the time, but when I was living with those choices every day, they weren’t as comfortable as I expected.

That’s what started to change.

I didn’t redo everything. I started paying closer attention to what I actually used and what I avoided using. Over time, I kept what felt right and let go of what didn’t.

I saw how easy it is to end up living with things you don’t really need.

Even now, I still prefer a minimalist space, but not one that feels bare. I like keeping things simple, but still lived-in.

My plants ended up becoming the main feature without me planning for it.

They’re all throughout my condo. Some are on my balcony, some on the TV console, others on the coffee table, the dining table, and in the bedrooms and bathrooms. A few sit low in small pots. Some have started to climb the support poles I added, and a couple are trailing as they grow longer. Those will eventually be moved into some hanging planters I’ve had my eye on for a minute.

My balcony faces east, so the light comes in early and stays soft. Plants closest to the doors catch that light first. When the sun hits them directly, the leaves shine. It’s subtle, but glorious.

I notice them most in the morning. It’s usually one of the first things I see when I walk into the living room. The light is coming in, everything looks a little fresher, and the plants near the doors stand out the most.

I recently attached a hummingbird feeder to one of the glass doors leading out to the balcony. In the morning, the sunlight hits the nectar and it glistens. The birds start showing up early, and then come back throughout the day, all the way until just after sunset.

That’s been new for me. I live in a tropical environment, so there’s a wide variety of birds around, but I hadn’t really thought much about them. Now, I get to see them up close every day.

So far, it’s mostly been black hummingbirds with red tails. Sometimes they’ll fly around my balcony for a few seconds before drinking, and other times they’ll dart in quickly, drink, and leave just as fast. Every now and then, two of them show up at the same time and end up going back and forth over the feeder, which is kind of hilarious.

I didn’t expect to get into bird watching, but I actually really enjoy it.

Most of my plants naturally reach toward the light, so I rotate them every so often to keep them growing evenly instead of leaning too far in one direction.

The plants further inside still get enough sunlight throughout the day, just without the direct exposure.

Inside, the space feels different depending on where you are. Near the balcony, everything feels lighter. Around the TV console and coffee table, it feels a bit more layered, with plants of different heights.

At some point, it stopped feeling like the plants were just part of the space. I’m more involved with them day to day — even talking to them sometimes (yes, I talk to my plants — and they like it). They have definitely become my little botanical babies.

I’ve also started propagating in water. I usually keep a few cuttings in glass vases on the coffee table and the TV console. You can see the roots come in gradually. They start off tiny, then grow stronger over time. All in plain old tap water. Nothing special.

And now that I’m propagating, I notice plants a lot more when I’m out.

If I’m walking to meet friends, heading to the store, or just out running errands, I’m paying attention to what’s growing along the sidewalks, near buildings, and in public spaces. I’ve started keeping a small pair of shears in my purse, so if I see something I don’t already have, I can take a cutting on the spot.

I’ll stop for a second, clip a piece, and keep moving.

It honestly feels like a little treasure hunt.

This is probably the first time something in my space started carrying into the rest of my day.

So the chair…..I bought a chair that has also changed how I use my space day to day.

It has a clean, modern shape with neutral fabric that blends in with everything else. From a distance, it looks like a basic accent chair. You would never know that it reclines, swivels, and rocks (winning).

But once you sit in it, you notice the difference right away.

That’s where I spend most of my time now. As a hostage.

Relaxing, watching TV, listening to podcasts, writing, napping, etc. It’s usually where I end up in the morning, sometimes with coffee or tea, and where I land again at night when everything winds down.

Before that, I would sit on my denim blue tufted couch, which I still adore, but this chair is definitely the new happy place.

I’ve been teaching some of my friends how to care for plants.

Most of them had already decided they weren’t good at it. They had tried before, overwatered everything to death, and quit. So we kept it simple. Cuttings, a few succulents, even a weed I pulled from the sidewalk.

That little weed ended up being the best experiment.

We put it on my friend’s balcony and kept the watering light. Within a couple of weeks, it started to fill out. The leaves opened up fully, and not long after, it started to flower.

Blew all of our minds.

She kept checking on it and sharing updates. At first it was curiosity. Then it turned into excitement after she realized it was actually working.

I’ve been enjoying it, probably just as much as she has.

There’s no pressure. It’s simple to teach, and it works.

At some point, I realized how much I like being at home.

Not just because it’s convenient, but because I want to be here. I’m not looking for reasons to leave. I’m not filling the space with noise just to make it feel busy.

Taking a career break gave me the time to slow down enough to experience all of these things more fully — the ability to sit still, decompress, and think more clearly about what matters to me and how I want to live.

The space I’m in now reflects that in a way my previous spaces didn’t.

It feels like something I’ve chosen, piece by piece.

Are you designing your home to fit your life, or the other way around?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

I had always managed my money well. I paid my bills on time, saved consistently, and didn’t feel out of control. But I had never sat down and looked at everything together in one place: what was coming in, what was going out, what I had saved, and how long it could support me.

I went through my bank and credit card statements line by line and found subscriptions I had forgotten about, charges that had been on autopay for years, and things I had signed up for at one point that no longer felt necessary. None of it was significant on its own, but it added up in a way I hadn’t really accounted for before.

I also started running the numbers more seriously. Looking at my monthly expenses next to my savings and investments, thinking through how long I could sustain myself, and what I would do if I needed to adjust. I wanted to fully understand.

For the first time, I had a complete picture of how my money was flowing. I still didn’t keep a strict budget, but I understood my finances in a more detailed way.

What changed the most wasn’t how much I spent. It was how I made decisions.

I didn’t live frugally. I still went out, bought things I wanted, and made plans with friends. But I wasn’t making decisions automatically anymore. If I wanted to sign up for something, I gave it a few days. If I was about to make a bigger purchase, I would pause long enough to decide if it actually made sense.

Not because I couldn’t afford it, but because I was paying attention in a way I hadn’t needed to before.

My definition of “waste” changed too, but not in a strict or rigid way. It was more about seeing things clearly.

When you have a full picture of your finances, you start to notice what doesn’t really add anything. And you also start to feel the difference when your expenses are lower. There’s more margin, and that shows up in small ways. Less second-guessing. Fewer decisions that feel tight. More room to choose without immediately thinking about what it might cost you later.

That part made everyday decisions feel more straightforward.

Around the same time, I started going through my home and giving away things I didn’t need, including some larger items like furniture. A lot of it ended up going to people who were in the process of moving or needed help getting set up.

There was something satisfying about that. Not just clearing things out, but knowing those items were actually useful to someone else. Having less to manage day to day also made a noticeable difference. Things felt lighter, easier to keep clean, and more aligned with how I had always wanted my home to feel.

I was also making more intentional decisions about what was worth investing in.

One of the things I chose to commit to was a year-long personal investing program based on the F.I.R.E. movement (financial independence, retire early). It was structured as a cohort, with regular meetings, group discussions, and assignments that helped us build out individualized investment plans over time.

It required a financial commitment, but it felt consistent with what I wanted for my future, which made the decision easier to commit to.

There were also things I chose not to move forward with.

Before taking my break, I had planned to buy a townhouse or condo in Florida as part of my long-term strategy. At the time, it felt like the next logical step.

But stepping back gave me the chance to look at that decision more carefully. Between the financial impact, what I was learning about the South Florida real estate market, and the growing concerns around climate change affecting the region, it no longer felt like the right move. I’m actually glad I didn’t go through with it.

For context, I was coming into this with a stable income history and no dependents, which gave me a certain level of flexibility. At the same time, what made the biggest difference wasn’t just what I had. It was how closely I was willing to look at it, and how I chose to move once I did.

Looking back, I didn’t spend less. I paid attention more.

I wasn’t restricting myself. I was making clearer decisions, and that created a level of ease I hadn’t experienced before.

That’s something I still think about now.

What are you noticing about how you spend your money?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

Something clear, structured, and easy to follow.

I remember wanting to map everything out. What I was going to do next, how long it would take, how it would all work. I thought if I could just figure it out early enough, I’d feel more settled in my decision to take a break from work.

But underneath that, there was something else driving it.

I didn’t feel like I had the luxury of taking my time.

I wasn’t a millionaire. I had a cushion saved, yes, but it wasn’t endless. And even though running out of money wasn’t an immediate concern, it still felt uncomfortable to be pulling from something that wasn’t being replenished.

There was always that awareness in the background.

Rest, recharge, explore.

But also… at some point, you need to make money again.

The more I tried to figure it out, the more everything started to feel forced.

Even the ideas that initially felt interesting didn’t last very long.

I’d get interested in something, start figuring out the details, and for a moment it would feel like it made sense. But a lot of those ideas were just me playing it safe. Things I knew I could monetize. Things that fit my existing skill set.

But they didn’t feel interesting to me.

A few weeks later, I’d be right back where I started. Questioning it again.

It became a pattern.

At the same time, my days weren’t empty.

A random Tuesday could look pretty full. I’d be on my computer learning something new. Blogging, digital products, personal investing. Usually through some kind of course I signed up for and worked through.

I was actually applying a lot of what I was learning too, or at least starting to see where it could fit into something I might build later.

I stayed on top of things I hadn’t had time for before. Doctor’s appointments. Dental cleanings. Grocery runs that weren’t rushed.

I was meeting with mentors. Overseeing volunteer teams. Helping plan community projects.

On paper, it looked like I was using my time well.

And I was.

But none of it answered the question I kept coming back to.

I’d sit on the couch with my laptop, open a blank Google Doc, and tell myself I just needed to figure this out so I could move forward. Then I’d open a few tabs to “research more,” go down a rabbit hole, and look up to realize an hour had passed.

It would be close to midnight.

I’d tell myself, just 10 more minutes.

It was never 10 minutes.

What frustrated me most wasn’t a lack of ideas.

It was not feeling pulled strongly enough in one direction to just commit.

I’ve always been the person who figures things out. The one who handles business. Gets things done.

So sitting in uncertainty like that didn’t feel natural to me.

It felt like I was wasting time.

Like I should already know.

And I wasn’t just overthinking.

I was avoiding.

At one point, I seriously considered going back to a corporate job for a set period of time.

Not because I wanted to. It just felt like a practical move. Stack some money, give myself more time to figure things out.

But the minute I started reading job descriptions, my body reacted before I could talk myself into it.

I started to feel that same stomach pain I used to get when I was overworked. Managing too much. Carrying more than I should have.

It was the same feeling I used to get at the height of that stress.

It felt like a warning sign, not something I needed to push through.

I was reworking the same ideas over and over instead of giving myself permission to fully explore the ones that felt more bold. The ones that felt creative. Entrepreneurial. A little uncomfortable.

Those were the ones that actually felt interesting to me.

But they also required me to think differently about what my life and work could look like.

I remember a conversation I had with a mentor in my 20s.

I was frustrated that I didn’t have a clear career path yet - something I was passionate about committing to long term. He laughed a little, then asked me, “Do you open a book, read the first page, and skip to the end?”

I said no.

Then he said, “So why are you trying to do that with your life?”

I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but it makes a lot more sense now.

At some point, I stopped trying to force it.

I stopped trying to fit my next chapter into something conventional. Something predictable. Something obvious.

That’s never really been my personality anyway.

And once I decided to seriously consider building something of my own, everything started to feel different.

The ideas came more easily.

They built on each other.

They felt more aligned.

And as I started talking through them with people who had already done it, people with real experience building businesses, things became clearer in a way they hadn’t before.

Around that time, I was also starting to think more seriously about coaching.

I had already been doing it informally, but I hadn’t treated it like a business yet.

One thing that stuck with me was how simple the advice actually was.

Show up consistently.

Put your work out there. Pay attention to how people respond. Adjust as you go.

It wasn’t about having the perfect offer from the beginning. It was about being in it long enough to understand what people actually needed.

There was another change too.

I stopped carrying all of it on my own.

Prayer became a bigger part of how I moved through that time. Instead of trying to think my way through every decision, I gave it to God.

And that brought a sense of peace that was unmistakable.

Less urgency.

Less pressure to have everything figured out right away.

Looking back, I can see I wasn’t lacking direction.

I was trying to define it too early.

What I actually needed was time to figure things out without rushing to define them.

A few things I paid attention to:

• What I was actually spending time on, even when I wasn’t trying to be productive

• Letting myself try things without deciding too quickly what they needed to become

• Not forcing interest just because something made sense on paper

• Being honest about when I was exploring vs when I was avoiding

• Giving myself permission to change direction when something didn’t feel right after trying it

None of this came together all at once.

It looked like trying things, pulling back, revisiting ideas, and paying attention to what actually kept my attention over time.

That ended up being more useful than forcing a decision early.

I’m curious…what are you noticing about how you’re spending your time right now?

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

It’s not the decision itself. It’s what comes after.

You wake up and realize there’s nowhere you have to be. No meetings, no deadlines, no one expecting you to respond right away. At first, it can feel like relief.

But then something else starts to creep in.

Guilt.

Not always in an obvious way. Sometimes it’s just a thought that keeps coming back.

Shouldn’t I be doing something?

I remember how subtle it felt at first. Not overwhelming, just there.

Even though I had reached a point where continuing the way I was didn’t make sense, stepping away didn’t immediately feel freeing. It felt unfamiliar in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I had spent so much time being consistent, dependable, and responsive. Being the person who followed through. So when that structure was gone, I wasn’t just adjusting to a different schedule. I was adjusting to not having something external to measure myself against.

And I don’t think I realized how much I relied on that.

There’s a specific kind of tension that can come up when you’re used to being capable. When you’re someone who plans, thinks ahead, and figures things out. Choosing to step away without a clear next step can feel like you’re doing something wrong, even when you’re not.

Even when it’s the most honest decision you’ve made in a long time.

Since sharing my last piece, I’ve heard from several women who recognized themselves in that experience. Some had already taken a break and said it changed their lives. Others are just starting to consider it.

One message that stayed with me came from someone who said she took time away between careers, and it gave her the space to heal and move toward something that felt more aligned. Another shared how hard it is to step away without a plan when you’ve always been the one who gets things done.

That part matters.

Because this isn’t only about burnout or leaving a job. It’s also about what happens when you step outside of the structure you’ve been operating in for so long.

The space can feel unfamiliar.

Sometimes it feels lighter. Sometimes it feels uncertain. Sometimes it’s both in the same day.

And if you give it time, something else starts to feel possible too.

A little more room to think. A little more awareness of what actually feels good to you. A little more distance from the pace you were keeping before.

This is part of the process.

Stepping away doesn’t automatically replace structure with clarity. Sometimes it brings up questions instead. And if you’re used to having answers, that can feel strange.

It took me some time to learn how to be in that space without trying to rush through it or turn it into something I needed to solve.

Some days felt easier than others. Some days I noticed the urge to figure things out right away.

But I started to see that urge differently.

Not as something I needed to follow, but as a sign of how used to having answers I had been.

And that made a difference.

If you’re in a similar place, or even just thinking about stepping away, it makes sense if it feels more complicated than you expected.

It doesn’t mean you made the wrong decision.

It may just mean you’re in a part of the process that people don’t talk about enough.

And over time, this part can become something else too. Not something to rush through, but something that starts to give you a clearer sense of what actually fits.

If this is something you’ve been experiencing, I’d love to hear what it’s felt like for you.

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle

What I knew was that my life priorities had changed since I joined the company several years earlier. Not in a dramatic way.

It happened gradually.

My family was getting older.

My parents were dealing with health challenges.

I still had grandparents, which felt like both a gift and a responsibility I didn’t want to keep postponing.

I was living in New Jersey. They were in Florida.

Close enough to visit a few times a year.

Too far away to show up in the ways that actually mattered.

So I did what seemed reasonable at the time.

I talked to my boss.

I explained what had shifted. I shared that I wanted to move closer to my family. I named the realities of distance and time. And I told her that making that move would require me to work remotely – fully remote, not temporarily.

I didn’t think the request was outrageous.

I worked in HR. I was responsible for onboarding every new hire. I knew, firsthand, that the company already employed several full-time remote workers.

I had processed their paperwork. I had welcomed them in.

The possibility existed. I could see it clearly.

So I laid out my case. Calmly. Thoughtfully.

When I finished, my boss responded with empathy. She understood the family piece. She acknowledged the shift I was describing.

And then she explained that company policy had recently changed.

They were no longer allowing employees at my role level to be fully remote.

At the start of the new year, the company would be implementing a return-to-office policy. All employees would be required to be in the office at least three days a week, depending on the team.

There was no exception she could make.

No workaround to offer.

No path forward that included me working from home permanently.

I remember listening, nodding, absorbing the information.

On the surface, it was a policy update. A logistical limitation. A business decision.

But internally, something settled.

Not panic.

Not anger.

Clarity.

That conversation didn’t immediately lead to a resignation letter or an exit plan.

But it did something more permanent.

It made the idea of a career break real.

The Women I Keep Recognizing

Over time, I started noticing a pattern.

The same kind of woman was showing up again and again – in conversations, in confessions, in the questions people ask when they feel safe enough to be honest.

She’s usually competent. Reliable.

The one people count on.

She’s built a solid career. Often more than solid. She’s done what she said she would do. Finished the degrees. Took the jobs. Made the responsible choices.

From the outside, her life looks stable.

Maybe even successful.

But inside, she’s tired in a way that rest alone doesn’t touch.

Many of these women are in their mid-thirties to mid-fifties. Some are partnered. Some aren’t. Some have children. Some don’t.

But almost all of them carry a strong sense of responsibility – not just for themselves, but for other people too.

They’re often the helpers.

The fixers.

The ones who figure things out.

They’re also usually financially aware. Not impulsive. They think about money. They plan. They worry about making the “wrong” decision because they’ve worked hard for what they have.

And that’s part of what makes this season so disorienting.

Because nothing is obviously broken.

They’re not falling apart at work. They’re not failing.

In many cases, they’re doing well.

Which makes the exhaustion harder to explain – to themselves and to other people.

They’ll say things like:

“I should be grateful.”

“I know I’m blessed.”

“What will people say if I leave my job without having another one lined up?”

But the feeling is still there.

A sense of being done with a chapter they can’t quite name yet.

An awareness that the life they built no longer fits in the same way.

I recognize these women because I was one of them.

I know what it’s like to be capable and depleted at the same time.

To have options on paper, but feel strangely stuck.

This isn’t about hating work.

Or wanting to escape responsibility.

Or blowing up a life for the sake of reinvention.

It’s about reaching a point where continuing as-is starts to cost more than it gives.

And once you notice that feeling, it’s hard to unsee it.

The Tension No One Says Out Loud

The women I work with aren’t usually confused in the way people assume.

They’re not lost.

They’re not incapable of making decisions.

They’re not waiting for permission.

What they’re carrying is tension.

They know they’ve built something substantial. And they also know they can’t keep living the same way without it costing them more than they’re willing to give.

They’ll say things like:

“I don’t hate my job. I just can’t imagine doing this for another ten years.”

“I’ve worked too hard to just walk away.”

“I’m exhausted, but slowing down isn’t really an option – especially for Black women.”

There’s fear underneath all of it.

Fear of choosing wrong.

Fear of disappointing people who depend on them.

Fear of stepping away and not being able to find their way back.

Many of them have been the responsible one for a long time. The steady one. The one who planned ahead so they wouldn’t end up in a precarious position.

So the idea of a career break – especially one without a mapped-out next step – can feel reckless, even when staying feels unsustainable.

They worry about how it will look.

To their colleagues.

To their families.

To themselves.

They worry about explaining it.

How do you say you’re leaving a job that looks good on paper when nothing “bad enough” has happened?

How do you justify stepping away when you’re still performing well?

This is where many women get stuck.

Not because they lack ambition or resilience.

But because they’ve been taught to keep going, even when their inner life is asking for something different.

And when that request keeps getting ignored, it doesn’t get louder.

It gets heavier.

There Was No Playbook – So I Made One

One of the hardest parts of that season wasn’t the decision itself.

It was the lack of reference points.

There was no clear example of what a career break was supposed to look like for someone like me. No script to follow.

No widely accepted version of stepping away that didn’t sound irresponsible or dramatic.

Most of what I saw fell into two extremes.

People who burned everything down and called it freedom.

Or people who stayed, endured, and told themselves this was just how adulthood worked.

Neither felt true for me.

I didn’t want to escape my life.

I wanted it to fit better.

But there wasn’t a widely shared language for that.

Especially not for Black women who had worked hard to build stability and weren’t interested in gambling it away.

So I started paying closer attention to my own experience.

What I was afraid of.

What I needed in order to feel solid.

What made the idea of a break feel possible instead of terrifying.

This is my story – and it’s why I’m sensitive to this.

I know what it’s like to want change without wanting chaos.

To crave space without wanting to undo everything you’ve built.

There wasn’t a roadmap waiting for me.

No neat timeline that said, first you do this, then everything makes sense.

So I made one, slowly.

Not by following a formula.

But by listening closely to what my life was already telling me.

That’s also why I’m careful with how I talk about career breaks now.

Because I’ve lived that life.

I know how exposed it can feel to stand between what you’re leaving and what hasn’t taken shape yet.

And how easily that space can be misunderstood by people who’ve never been in it.

This isn’t about selling a version of bravery.

It’s about telling the truth about what it takes to pause on purpose – especially when there’s no example to point to and no guarantee waiting on the other side.

What Had to Shift Before I Stepped Away

The decision to take a career break didn’t start with a resignation letter.

It started much earlier.

Before I talked to my boss about leaving the company, I spent time looking closely at my relationship with money, security, and risk.

Not to fix anything – but to understand what I was actually afraid of.

I needed to feel steady before I could imagine stepping away.

So I started watching money mindset and personal finance videos.

Not to master anything.

Just to see how money factored into my decisions – and where fear was filling in the blanks.

I looked closely at my monthly expenses and began cutting back where I could.

I wanted to know what my life actually cost.

What I could adjust.

What I didn’t want to give up.

I started saving more aggressively.

I paid off high-interest debt so it wouldn’t follow me into the next season.

None of this made the decision easy.

But it made it real.

What shifted most wasn’t just my finances – it was how I thought about leaving.

I stopped seeing a career break as something I had to justify or explain in advance.

I started seeing it as a response to information I already had.

Information my body had been offering for a while.

Information my circumstances were bringing into focus.

By the time I spoke to my boss about leaving, the internal decision-making was already underway.

The external conversation mattered – but it wasn’t the beginning.

It was the moment I stopped trying to talk myself out of what I already understood.

What I Want Women in This Season to Know

If you’re in the middle of a transition like this, I want to be clear about what I say next.

You don’t have to be at a breaking point for something to be worth reconsidering.

You don’t have to justify your exhaustion with a story.

And you don’t need a perfectly articulated next step to acknowledge that something in your life is asking for change.

For many women, especially those who’ve spent years being dependable and capable, leaving – or even pausing – can feel like a betrayal: of the work you put in, of the people who counted on you, of the version of yourself who once wanted this life.

That tension is real.

So is the fear of being misunderstood.

People may not see what you’re carrying.

They may only see the title, the salary, the stability.

They may assume that staying is the reasonable choice – and that stepping away means you’re throwing something away.

But choosing differently doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful.

And it doesn’t mean you’re irresponsible.

Sometimes it means you’re paying attention.

I’ve lived that life – the one where everything looks fine on the outside, while the inside feels increasingly constrained.

And I also know this.

Uncertainty doesn’t mean you’re lost.

It often means you’re standing between what no longer fits and what hasn’t fully taken shape yet.

That space can feel exposed.

It can feel lonely.

But it isn’t a failure of planning or courage.

It’s a transition.

What I’ve Noticed

I don’t believe life transitions are meant to be rushed or resolved on a strict timeline.

They’re often slower than that.

Small realizations rather than bold declarations.

Most of the time, the shift happens long before anything changes on the outside.

It shows up in how your body responds to your days.

In the questions that keep recurring.

In the sense that continuing as-is requires more effort than it used to.

This is where I was when the idea of a career break started to set in.

At a point of honesty I couldn’t ignore anymore.

If you’re here too, you don’t need to label it or turn it into a plan.

Awareness doesn’t come with instructions.

But it usually marks the beginning of something.

If this resonates with you, I would love to hear from you.

Take a few moments and share your thoughts in the comments section.

With warmth & clarity,
Shawna Michelle